


The Neighboring Perspective

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family, Father!Dean, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Neighbors, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Slow Burn, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's newly single, in a new house, and a brand-new father to boot.<br/>Dean's also got this weird thing where some stranger is leaving baby clothes on his porch at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Neighboring Perspective

Their relationship was never meant to be. The sex was good, fantastic even, and they were friends. But a certain spark was missing. The only wrench, keeping them together longer than they should have, was when Lisa found out she was pregnant. They parted, amicably, sometime around the sixth month of her pregnancy. Dean held her hand in the hospital room, witnessing the bloody, exhaustive crowning with a gasped, “sonofabitch.” He still maintains that if Lisa hadn’t been holding his hand so tightly, he might have crumpled to the floor.

                Their son, Ben, was born healthy, happy, and to two fully committed parents, even if those parents weren’t together anymore.

                Dean arranged to get custody of Ben every Friday through Sunday, which worked well with his hours off from the garage. For the first few months, baby Ben would be deposited in his care, along with a flurry of diapers, baby food, breast milk, wet wipes, ointments, creams—

                It was a lot to take in, all at once, especially since they were caring for Ben separately. Parenting advice, tips on how to handle Ben’s feeding and sleeping habits, were traded as Ben was shifted from one parent’s shoulder to another. They smiled at each other tiredly, happily, assuring each other that they could get through this. Parenthood. It seemed like an awfully steep learning curve, but they loved Ben, and they had the support of their families. They knew it would work.

                Dean moved from his bachelor pad sometime in Ben’s third month, to a house across town on a nice residential street with a long front porch and wide windows to let the light in. There was an honest-to-god white picket fence house across the street, with a stooped old woman always watering her flowers and giving him a friendly wave. His other neighbors included a young couple with twin boys—they liked to catch worms from peoples’ driveways after rainstorms and put them in their parents’ bed—and some reclusive widower in the little gray house next door, an old man from what Dean had heard. What neighbors he did meet were friendly enough, and Dean was all moved in and settled within two days’ time.  Ben, strapped in a BabyBjorn carrier to Dean’s chest, slumbered peacefully while Dean assembled a new crib, alphabetized the children’s books, hung a mobile in the second bedroom. So this was fatherhood. Dean could make that work, too.

                This was late September in Lawrence,  when the wind starts smelling more of soil, carrying a bit more of a chill to it. Lisa had been on maternity leave since having Ben, but she was worried about a busy first week back, and she was suddenly having issues with the daycare she’d selected when she heard from a friend that it would be very easy for Ben to get sick there, surrounded by all those children, so Dean stepped in and volunteered to take off two weeks. Lisa could get acclimated to her job again. They could find a daycare that they trusted Ben with. He assured her it wasn’t a big deal, because it wasn’t—it was gonna be father-son bonding time. Because Lisa was an Oakland fan for some inconceivable reason, and Dean was gonna start Ben as early as possible, this week, and the next, by watching the Chiefs games with him. Subliminal messaging. Starting them young. No son of his was ever going to be a Raider.

                So Lisa went back to work and was immediately tapped to go to an out-of-town conference—no sweat, Dean told her. They’d Facetime every night. In the meantime, Dean put Ben in the stroller and took him everywhere—to Home Depot, to the grocery, to the post office. He bundled Ben up in his parka and his fleece onesies and the boots Grandpa Bobby had gotten Ben, but for the life of him he couldn’t find a gloves-and-hat set he thought Lisa had brought over. It wasn’t _that_ cold, at least not yet. It’s not like it was of dire importance.

                It’s just that Dean was determined to do this right, this parenthood thing, because God knows his own dad didn’t. On this particular walk, Ben makes a cooing sound as Dean passes the neighbor’s little gray house and Dean immediately pulls the stroller to a halt, running around to check for any warning signs of frostbite or hypothermia. Ben just tries to shove a finger into his eye socket, but Dean is still too worried, fumbling his cell phone out of his pocket. His only son needs that elusive gloves/hat combo, dammit.

Lisa doesn’t answer, but he leaves a short, panicky message anyways, detailing exactly what he remembers—yellow, storebought, some synthetic material.

                “I think there was a little black pom pom on the hat,” Dean says, cradling the phone to his ear as he nudges the stroller back and forth at the bottom of the neighbor’s driveway to keep Ben entertained. “And the gloves had those—those thick cuffs. That’s all I can remember. Call me back if you remember anything. Hope you’re kicking ass, love you, bye.”

                After a thoroughly messy dinner, Ben was in his crib by eight. Dean lounged on the couch, flipping channels, wishing he had a friend close by. Sam was a forty five minute drive away, and he doesn’t live in the same apartment complex as Garth or Benny anymore—friends who were within walking distance. The young couple next door is nice but entirely too preoccupied with making sure their kids aren’t getting up to anything that will end their lives prematurely. And his other neighbor, judging by the fact Dean has never seen him and the old-school Lincoln in the driveway, is probably at least thirty years his senior.

                He catches an inning of a baseball game and goes upstairs to sit in the rocker by Ben’s crib, just watching the rise and fall of his back, making sure his son is breathing. He’s already there when Ben wakes up, snuffling, so that he can coax him with some formula and pat Ben back to sleep on his shoulder.

                Fatherhood. Falling into an exhausted sleep, he thinks he’s doing alright.

**

                He’s going to the curbside trashcan the next morning, needing to throw out a diaper that’s just too foul to stay in the house, when he sees it.

                A little knit hat, carefully hung on the outside doorknob, swaying slightly from his dash outside. When Dean cautiously picks it up, two little knit gloves fall out.

                His first reaction is surprise that Lisa had apparently had the items and shipped them so fast—but that didn’t make sense, them just hanging on the doorknob here, and Lisa never had gotten back to him.

                He turns the hat over in his hands, considering. It seems handmade, gently used, and has a soft, sweet smell like it’s been kept in some blanket chest for years. It’s yellow, with two block poms emerging from the top on little antennas. The yellow gloves have black cross-stitching curly-cuing across the fingers, like the haphazard flight path of an insect. Overall, Ben’s going to look like a very cute, very warm baby bee when he wears them.

                Looking around, over his shoulder, at the closed doors and drawn blinds of his neighbors, Dean can only wonder who overheard his frantic call to Lisa.

**

                Later that afternoon, Dean takes Ben out for another spin in the stroller, looking around a bit self-consciously as he adjusts the bee-hat onto Ben’s huge baby head. One of the antennas immediately droops over, falling into Ben’s sight, and Ben goes cross-eyed trying to look at it. Dean straightens it up, and takes a step back.

                Ben gives him a toothless smile.

                After Snapchatting Lisa about fifteen pictures of that, Dean struts his stroller up and down the sidewalks of his neighborhood, nodding to a few of the residents he sees out. On the way back, he sees the old woman who lives across from out in her front yard, watering her flowers and looking up as he passes.

                Suddenly it all makes sense. Old woman, outdoors a lot. Old woman, knitting as a hobby. Just look at the way she’s beaming at Ben right now, probably in pride.  She probably overheard his conversation with Lisa and had scrounged up some of her old handiwork—

                Dean stops at her gate.

                “Hey there, neighbor,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve had a chance to introduce myself. I’m Dean, and my wingman over here is Ben.”

                The old woman shields her eyes against the sun as she smiles at Dean. “Julia Wilkinson. You can call me Jules,” she says. “What a lovely boy you have, Dean.”

                They make some small talk—where they’ve lived, what the neighborhood’s like—until Ben lets out a burble of displeasure, ready to see something new. Dean reaches over to pat his head between the antennas and smile at Jules.

                “I think Ben’s getting hungry. I’m sure I’ll see you soon—” Now, he remembers the original purpose of his visit—“And thank you, so much, for passing your work on to us.”

                Jules smiles in confusion, tilting her head. “My work?”

                “Yeah, the hat and gloves,” Dean says, equally confused. He wonders if she was purposely trying to leave him those possessions anonymously, playing innocent. “I figured you left—I mean, they’re not mine.”

                Jules shakes her head, opening her mouth and then closing it. There’s suddenly a knowing look on her face, although that doesn’t explain why her smile has suddenly dropped away.

                “I see,” she says. “Well, Dean, they certainly didn’t come from me.”

                Dean  nods uncertainly, although Jules’ strange reaction is spooking him a little. Maybe it’s a cursed pair of gloves, a jinxed hat. He feels the sudden need to rocket home and find the baby thermometer, make sure Ben isn’t feeling clammy.

                “Nothing to be worried about,” Jules says lightly, giving Dean a calming smile. “They were gifts given in good faith, all the same.”

                Which, Dean allows, is something. It still just doesn’t answer who is leaving lovingly knit baby items on his front porch in the dead of night.

**

                Dean probably would have forgotten all about it, chalking it up to some welcome-to-the-neighborhood coincidence, except that two days later, he finds a pair of tiny knit baby booties lined up neatly on his front mat. They’re a soft gray color, slightly worn, with small elephant ears and a trunk stitched over the toes. Dean dips his hand inside them and finds soft fleece lining within, perfect for when Ben and him are out in the nippy weather.

                Lisa calls later that day, filling him in on her conference and asking what he and Ben have been up to.

                “Oh,” she says, as she’s about to hang up. “It’s completely slipped my mind until now—that yellow hat you wanted for Ben is still at my house. You’ve got a key if you really wanted to go get it—”

                “No,” Dean says, looking at the small collection of knitwear that’s hung on the pegs by his door. “I think I’m good, actually.”

                Four days later, socks hanging from the door knocker, a soft blue color. He looks around, up and down the street, before picking them up and bringing them inside.

**

                Lisa returns from her trip a week later and is at Dean’s door, by his estimate, within half an hour of her plane landing.

                “Miss me that much?” He says, swinging open the door for her with a smirk. Her eyes immediately zero in on Ben, chilling complacently in the BabyBjorn against Dean’s chest, but then even she gets distracted by the larger assault against her eyes.

                “Dean,” she says slowly. “Why the hell is your front room neon pink?”

                He shrugs. “I let Ben pick out the paint color at Home Depot. That’s just the color of the paint swatch he literally drooled the most over.” At her stare, he says, “It wasn’t an exact science.”

                “It’s…definitely something,” she says. She steps closer to wrangle Ben out of the BabyBjorn, tipping her head up to kiss Dean’s cheek briefly. “You’ve been so wonderful these past few weeks. It could have been so much worse, being away from Ben—”

                “Hey,” Dean says. “We’re a family, right? That’s just what I do.”

                “Yeah,” Lisa says. She snuggles Ben up against her neck and lets out a laugh. “I think I’m still getting used to seeing you in the daddy role.”

                She smells Ben’s shampoo-fresh head and lets out a long sigh of relief. “You’re really good at it.”

                Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that. He’s noticed he’s good at it, too. He thinks it has something to do with raising Sam when he was younger, or maybe just an inherent part of his personality. Whatever reason, he’s only been a father for three months and it feels so easy sometimes, so natural, that he thinks it’s been much longer.

                “Come on in,” he says, gesturing over to the TV. “Ben and I were watching The Wiggles.”

                “I hope I can follow along,” Lisa says, deadpan. “I’ve missed the last few episodes.”

                They sit on the couch together, Dean throwing his arm over the back. He’ll have to go back to work tomorrow, have to return to only seeing Ben for weekday dinners, only having him home on the weekends. For now, he’s happy to be sitting with his small family,  relaxing into the couch.

                “Cute socks,” Lisa comments, wiggling Ben’s toes through the blue knit material. “Where’d you get them?”

                Dean smiles lazily over at  her. “A friend.”

**

                He’s up by five thirty on Monday morning, because now that his two weeks off are over, he’s expected at the garage before seven. He has half a protein bar shoved in his mouth when he opens the front door and almost trips over a dark figure kneeling there. They both exclaim, Dean grabbing the doorframe for support, the man falling back on his heels.

                “What the fuck,” Dean wheezes. “What are you doing on my porch, man?”

His hallway light is still on behind him, and he can see by the cast that the man there has a red flush rising in his cheeks, blinking quickly behind his glasses.

                “I, uh,” the man begins in a hoarse voice, and that’s when Dean sees the carefully folded cable-knit sweater in the man’s hands, infant-sized, off-white.

                “Oh,” Dean says. “You—you’re—who are you, exactly?”

                “I’m your neighbor,” the man says, not looking quite right at Dean. “Next door. I—I overheard your phone call, saying you needed some baby items for your son. It’s not like I was using them anyways, I—”

                “Hey, man, it’s—”

                “Castiel Novak,” the man says, abruptly standing up.

                “Cool. I’m Dean Winchester,” he says, and sticks out his hand, but the man is still holding the sweater in his hands, painfully awkward, and Dean’s diverts his handshake at the last moment to reach out for the sweater, feeling the thick fabric between two fingers.

                “It’s beautifully made,” he says, smiling up at Castiel.  “Just something you had laying around?” It’s a bad joke, he’s just trying to put this Castiel at ease, but the man flushes further still and pulls his chin in a little.

                “I apologize,” Castiel says in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I hadn’t expected you to be up this ear—it doesn’t matter. It’s been nice meeting you.”

                Dean, at a loss, tries to dip his head, tries to meet Castiel’s eye. “It’s fine,” he says. “Seriously, it’s nice to meet you, too. Finally. Thank you for—”

                “It’s nothing,” the man says abruptly. He all but shoves the little sweater into Dean’s hands. “Really. Goodbye, Dean.”

                Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Castiel is already walking quickly down his porch steps, pulling his collar up around his ears. His neighbor doesn’t turn and head back to his own house. As Dean watches, Castiel flips the hood of his jacket up and starts jogging down the sidewalk. The slap of his footsteps echoes as Cas disappears around the block only a few seconds later.

                Dean stares down at the sweater in his hands. Pristine, carefully made. Meant to be dropped off in the early morning hours, when its maker was having his morning jog. Meant to be anonymous, completely unseen, unthanked.

                Dean shrugs and carefully folds up the sweater again; it had gotten mussed in its quick exchange  between hands. He tucks it into his bag—he can give it to Lisa tonight if he swings by for dinner there.

                On the drive out of the neighborhood, he keeps an eye out for a lean jogger, dressed in black, hood up, but he doesn’t see anyone at all.

**

                On Friday, Dean picks up Ben and his weekend bag after a long shift at work.

                Once home, he spends an inordinately long amount of time trying to figure out what combination of clothing that doesn’t look overdone. Ben patiently sits through it all until Dean decides that the white knit sweater and the tiny elephant booties do just fine. As they’re leaving, Dean checks himself in the hall mirror, pulling his shirt straighter with some self-consciousness.

                It’s a short walk across the lawn and over to the little gray house, and before Dean can lose his nerve he rings the doorbell twice and then stands back and waits.

                The door creaks open a few seconds later, and Dean puts on his winningest good-neighbor smile.

                “Hey there, Cas,” he says. “I brought over a little someone who hasn’t had a chance to say thank you.”

                “Oh,” Cas says. In the light of day, without the surprise that came with finding a man crouched on his porch, Dean can see that Cas is really fucking attractive. He’s got a few days’ worth of stubble, and a serious pair of eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses, and when he opens the door wider after a moment of hesitance, Dean can see all six feet of lithe runner’s build.

                Dean decides he should probably stop ogling the neighbor, so he looks down at Ben, who he’s got balanced on his hip, and bounces him a little for emphasis. “I don’t think you two have had a chance to meet.”

                “No,” Cas says after a moment. Dean looks up and finds that Cas is looking at Ben fondly, smiling a little, so Dean spontaneously says,

                “Here, you can hold him for a moment.” He plops Ben into Cas’s arms before either of them can think about it too much.

                Cas fumbles with Ben for a moment before hoisting him into the crook of his arm, all done with such an ease and familiarity that makes Dean think that Cas has had experience with kids.

                “Hi, Ben,” Cas says in his low, serious voice. Ben is staring up at him with a suspicious, scrunched face. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

                Cas reaches up with his free hand to smooth the folds of the baby’s sweater, his own handiwork put to use,  and Ben bunches one chubby fist around one of Cas’s long fingers, holding it hostage. The man suddenly looks up at Dean, the gratefulness in his face making Dean’s chest feel all kind of strange.

                “I’m glad to see you’re getting some use out of what I left you,” he says. “Most of it has been sitting around my house for years.”

                “Everything you left, man, it’s more than appreciated,” Dean says. “I’m glad I have the chance to tell you personally.”

                Cas looks at him intently for another moment, and then steps aside, giving Dean room to enter the house.        

                “Would you like to come in?” Dean smiles and steps past him.           

                The house inside is cool and shadowy. The front room’s open windows are obscured by gauzy curtains, lifting and billowing with the breeze. There’s a desk with a laptop and a stack of books right in front of them; Dean can see how Cas had overheard his conversation with Lisa, unseen.

                Dean sits down on the couch, looking around the other walls of the room. There’s a bookcase, a large potted plant, and a mantel lined with picture frames. From here, he can see the photos mostly depict a smiling, younger Cas with two other people—a slim woman and a blonde child. He catches himself looking too long and quickly snaps his gaze back to Cas, but the other man is smiling down at Ben, bouncing him slightly in the crook of his arm.

                “You have a nice house,” Dean says. “Do you, uh, work from home?” It’s no secret that the Lincoln in Cas’s driveway hadn’t seemed to move one inch since Dean moved in—yet another reason he had thought Cas was in his seventies, maybe with a suspended driver’s license.

                Cas nods. “I’m a writer,” he says. “I’m mostly freelance.”

                “Oh, yeah?” Dean says. “What kind of writing? I might’ve heard of it.”

                Cas shakes his head, looking a little amused. “I doubt it.”

                At Dean’s try-me face, Cas sighs and says, “Do you like to read up on the nonfiction writer’s precarious need to satisfy logic and order while also not breaking the unsaid author-reader contract?”

                “Uh…” Dean says, flushing.

                 Cas walks over to his desk, shuffling one-handed through papers with his free arm. “That was just my latest article, for _The New Yorker_. I guess I…write about writing.”

                The sudden closed-off quality, his back to Dean, makes Dean feel like he’s missing something.

                “You had to do some novel-writing yourself,” Dean guesses, “to become an authority on the subject.”

                “Used to,” Cas says. “I’m afraid I’m experiencing the creative person’s slow death.” At Dean’s confused silence, he clarifies: “Writer’s block.”

                “Well, tell me if you need some chicken soup sometime,” Dean says. “Help make you feel better.”

                Cas turns around and grins at him,  the same grateful way that he did before, like he doesn’t smile often and relishes the opportunity to.

                “What about you, Dean?” He says. He comes back over to stand next to Dean, handing Ben over as the baby makes a fussing noise.

                “Me?” Dean looks down at Ben, swaddled in the sweater Cas made, and presses a gentle finger over Ben’s smooth check, calming him. “I work as a mechanic in town. Had to rearrange my schedule a bit over the last few weeks, with Lisa getting back into the grind, but the job’s great, I love my coworkers, and it leaves weekends free for Ben.”

                “Lisa?” Cas repeats. He looks a bit awkward now, standing in front of Dean with nothing to do with his arms, so Dean scootches over to make room for him in the couch. Cas sits.

                “Oh, yeah—Lisa. My ex-girlfriend. Even though we’re not together anymore, we’re still gonna make sure Ben’s raised with two loving, supportive parents. She gets week days, I get weekends, we’re gonna switch off on holidays.”

                He looks over at Cas, a bit defensively, because Lord knows enough people (Lisa’s parents, for one) didn’t think those arrangements were good enough. They had raised hell, trying to convince Lisa and Dean to stay together, saying Ben would turn out wrong, or bad, if his parents weren’t married. Even if they weren’t happy with each other, even if they loved other people. Lisa’s parents, among many others, were the first to preach that they were being selfish,  to Ben’s detriment.

                “I can tell you love Ben very much,” Cas says seriously. “You’re  both doing a fantastic job.”

                “Thanks,” Dean says. He swallows. “This is all new to me, it’s nice to hear I’m doing something right.”

                “Take it from someone who knows—” Cas starts, and then his eyes go wide behind his glasses and he chokes off. He pats his pockets nervously, looking away from Dean, and then stands up. “I, uh, I have plenty more newborn clothing, if you want it. You’d actually be doing me a favor. It’s just gathering dust now.”

                Dean stands up too. “Yeah, Cas, that would be awesome. As long as you’re sure—”

                Cas nods. “Definitely. Just a moment, I just need to—” He jerks his head towards the door, walking quickly out of the room. Dean, a bit at a loss, waits in the middle of the room. Ben’s still making cranky noises; he’ll have to go feed him soon.

                Cas comes clattering back down the stairs, a plastic tub in his hands. Inside, there are rows of carefully folded baby clothes, some already too small for Ben, others a little too large.

                Dean looks between the tub filled with clothes, and the mantel lined with pictures, and back to Cas, who’s kneeling on the floor, sifting through his collection and carefully not returning Dean’s look.

                “—A pair of mittens, and another pair of socks, and this onesie looks like it could fit him…” Cas extracts a few items and holds them up for Dean to take.

                “Dean?”

                Dean carefully schools his face, giving the new, lovingly made articles the attention they deserved.

                “Wow,” he says admiringly. “Ben’s gonna be one sharp-dressed dude. These are really awesome, man. Thank you.”

                “It’s nothing,” Cas says. He pushes up from the floor, and now that he’s standing they’re only inches away from each other, in the intimate half-light of Cas’s house, the baby snuffling between them. “It was nice seeing you and Ben, Dean. Feel free to visit anytime.”

                There’s something wistful in the way he says it, and Dean wishes his hands weren’t full with baby and baby clothes, because he’d like to do—something, he’s not sure what. Maybe lay his hand on Castiel’s forearm, or pull him it a handshake, or a hug—

                “Definitely,” Dean says, nodding. “I’ll, uh, see you soon, neighbor.”

                He mentally smacks himself as he trots across their lawns, wondering where all that patented Winchester charm went.

**

                Sam visits the next day, a Saturday, as a surprise. He and Ben play together on the back lawn, his gigantic younger brother practically flinging Ben into the tree tops, lobbing him around like a pizza maker tosses dough—

                “Sam,” Dean roars more than once, white-knuckled on the back porch as he watches, “ _Ben’s not a fucking Frisbee_!”

                Sam just laughs him off, making goofy faces down at Ben, or holding him over his head, making airplane noises, as he runs around the lawn.  Ben is endlessly entertained, laughing, by that.

                Dean reclaims his son when an exhausted, hair-mussed moose of a brother finally comes onto the porch to eat dinner. “His ears are probably popping,” Dean says, feeling through mittens and booties for any broken bones. “He’s probably feeling _flight turbulence_ , Sam.”

                Sam’s too busy wolfing down seconds to bother replying.

                Sometime in the course of their conversation, Dean thinks he sees the curtains in his neighbor’s gray house twitch, but  he’s not sure; it could just as easily be the wind.

                Dean doesn’t know why he feels an overwhelming feeling of compassion, of protectiveness, for this neighbor that he barely knows. By all rights, they’ve only met twice. Beyond that, Dean’s been able to put the dots together in a way that everyone, including Cas, has been too tactful to explain—but Dean has remembered, by now, what the neighbors said of the man who lives in the little gray house next door. A widower, they had said. Dean had known that, had used that as his basis for thinking Cas was old, decrepit—and had forgotten, immediately, as soon as he saw Cas kneeling on his porch—hoarse voice, red-tinged cheeks,  a tiny sweater  to offer up.

He was sure there was more to Cas than just that—A widower with a knitting habit and an empty house and so many words he’s swallowed down, silenced, instead of writing on the page.

**

                On Sunday, Dean pushes Ben on a stroller-circuit around the neighborhood, enjoying the crisp wind, the smell of leaves. On the way back, he waves to Jules across the way, picks up the newspaper, and then, after thinking about it, picks up Cas’s newspaper, too.

                Cas has a hopelessly endearing case of bedhead, his eyes still thick-lidded behind his glasses, when he stumbles to the door.

                “Hey,” Dean says. He wave at Cas with the newspaper. “Thought you might want the morning funnies.”

                Cas suppresses a yawn with his fist. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Dean,” he says. “You saved me from a walk down my driveway.”

                Cas’s eyes crinkle with his small joke, and Dean, who apparently can still be a smooth motherfucker when he wants to, suddenly has the inspiration to say, “Actually, I also came so I could extend the invitation—I’m gonna make chili for dinner tonight, and it’s just me and the toothless wonder over here—” He jerks his head back at Ben, who’s blowing snot bubbles from the stroller. “Care to join? It would actually be a huge help.”

                Cas cocks his head. “Really?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “You’ll save me from having to box up all the leftovers.” But there’s more to it than that, really. Cas would be a help to him in the same way that he, Dean, was a help to Cas, taking Cas’s old baby clothes with no explanation needed. Acts of charity, good-will, that were lightyears more  valuable to the giver than the receiver. Those things could be left unsaid, between them, and comfortably at that.

                “Okay,” Cas says. He smiles, which is really all Dean wanted originally—just to see his face. “I’ll be over at—”

                “Six,” Dean says. He holds out Cas’s newspaper, and their fingers brush as Cas takes it. “See you at six.”

**

                Cas comes at 5:45 to a cursing Dean, blaring smoke alarms, and a howling Ben.

                Not that Dean noticed, of course. He was trying to save the chili, while one-handedly trying to wave a broom in the direction of the smoke drifting towards the ceiling, while also trying to yell useless baby-talk in the direction of his son, so he was a bit surprised when Ben’s screaming became a little more muffled. He turned around to see Cas lifting Ben out of his bouncer.

                Cas nods hello at him as he rocks Ben against his chest, pushing the baby’s head into the material of his shirt.  As Dean watches, Cas cradles Ben’s head with one hand, his palm pressed over Ben’s ear—Ben’s other ear pressed against Cas’s chest. Ben slowly calm down, hiccupping, all sound drowned out except for the rhythmic beat of Cas’s heart.

                Dean nods back, and waves the broom haphazardly towards the ceiling again before turning to take the chili pot of the burner. The pot hisses for a moment and then settles; the alarms suddenly cut off. He turns back to Cas, aware of his sweaty, red face, and passes a hand across his forehead.

                “Hey,” he says. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

                “It’s nothing,” Cas says. He sitting at Dean’s table, still with his hand carefully supporting Ben delicate, downy head. It makes a strange ache happen in Dean’s chest, one that hasn’t happened in a long time. “I’m glad to help.”

                Ben falls asleep in the time that it takes to divvy up the chili between two bowls, so Dean lays him down in the crib while Cas carries their food outside.

                They end up sitting on the back porch together, watching the sun set—nice, warm chili bowls in their laps, a persistent, tangy breeze.  The baby monitor sits between their thighs, crackling a little from time to time. Sitting on the wide porch stair with Cas, listening to the scrape of their spoons, Dean feels utterly comfortable, even if he’s barely known Cas a week.

                “So,” Cas says. He pauses to wipe his mouth off with a paper towel. “Your front room is very pink.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “I think it’s called _razzle dazzle_.”

                “I think I like it,” Cas says. “it’s very…attention-getting.”

                “It’s like walking into a vagina,” Dean says. “Ben picked it out. He also chose puce green for the upstairs bathroom—you’ll have to check that out. But I think it’s growing on me.”

                “Walking into a vagina is?”

                Dean points his spoon at Cas. “I see what you’re trying to do. You’re gonna go gossiping to all the neighbors, twisting my words, making them think I’m a lunatic, so I’m going to stop while I’m ahead with some dignified silence.”

                Cas’s eyes are dancing. “I wouldn’t gossip to all the neighbors about you,” he says. “If I’d tell them anything, I’d tell them—”

                “Dignified silence,” Dean reminds him.

                “That you make fantastic chili, and that you have a beautiful baby, and that they shouldn’t judge you by the color of your…distinctive front room.”

                This time Dean pokes Cas in the side with his spoon, causing Cas to yelp, and before either of them can react any further, they hear the tread of footsteps behind them and turn to see Lisa stepping through the sliding door, smiling at them.

                “Hey,” she says cheerfully. “I rang the doorbell, but I figured you must be outside…” She frowns, sniffing the air. “I assumed you were having a bonfire or something, the house smelled so smoky—”

                “Right,” Dean says. He stands up. “There was a _tiny_ kitchen snafu, nothing to be worried about—” Lisa is smiling, but she’s looking over Dean’s shoulder. Dean looks too and see that Cas has stood up, hands awkwardly pushed into his pockets.

                “Lisa, this is Cas, my neighbor,” he says, gesturing between them. “Cas, this is Lisa, the kick-ass, lovely mother of my child.”

                Lisa laughs, and steps forward with her hand stretched out. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, and Cas wraps both his hands around hers and says the same.

                “Ben’s asleep upstairs,” Dean says, stooping to pick up the baby monitor and hold it up to his ear. He hears light, even breathing. “Yep. Out like a light. What do you want to bet he’s gonna be a huge grump about being woken up?”

                “Oh, no doubt,” Lisa says. “But I’m not going to bet you.”

“What, afraid of losing?”

Lisa gives him a playful push.  “I think you owe _me_ money. It’s definitely not _my_ genes—”

                “I’d better go,” Cas says suddenly. Now that the sun’s fallen, Dean hates that Cas’s face is in the shadows. He can’t tell what Cas is thinking. “I don’t want to be in your way.”

                “Cas, you wouldn’t—”

                “Thank you for the dinner, Dean. And Lisa, it was very nice to meet you.” Cas is saying, earnestly, as he backs down the stairs. “Have a good night.”

                “Night,” Dean calls feebly after Cas’s retreating back.

                He turns back to Lisa, and finds she’s giving him a strange look. “What?”

                “Nothing,” she says. She stoops to pick up their used bowls, and looks over her shoulder at him. “He has kind eyes.”

                Dean opens his mouth, but isn’t quite sure what to say. Following her into the house, locking the sliding door behind him, he says, “Yeah, he does.”

**

                They barely know each other, really. But considering the close proximity, Dean thinks it’s strange when three days go by and he and Cas haven’t even seen each other. Wednesday, after work, he picks up a six pack from the Gas-N-Sip and, once home, walks across Cas’s lawn.

                One of the advantages of working from home is apparently not putting on pants, because Cas is wearing plaid boxers and a huge, shapeless knit sweater. It’s blue, with a line of diamonds running across the chest. It’s interesting how it’s simultaneously incredibly ugly and utterly endearing.

                “Looking good, Cas,” Dean says, and lifts the six pack up so Cas can see it. “What are you up to tonight?”

                Cas squints at the beer. “I…nothing,” he says slowly. “Where’s Ben?’

                “It’s a week night,” Dean says. “Means Lisa’s got him. I’m all yours.”

                Cas flushes at that, smiling to himself, before pulling the door open for Dean. “You can head on back to the kitchen,” he says.

                Dean does just that.  Behind him, he hears Cas closing the door, and then the shuffling sound of him walking into his front room, the musical trill of his laptop being shut off. On his own, Dean feels his way for the light switch, flicking it on and finding himself in a cozy kitchen, with a scarred wooden table, skillets and pots hanging over the kitchen island, and a fridge covered in drawings and magnets.

                _i love you daddy_ says one, in the crabbed scrawl of a child. Beneath it, there are two stick figures depicted holding hands—one, a girl, with yellow crayoned hair, and the other taller and with glasses. Dean feels a lump in his throat, looking at it, and quickly bustles over to the table when he hears Cas coming down the hallway.

                “Nice sweater,” Dean says, popping the caps off of two bottles. “Did you knit that yourself, too?”

                Cas pulls the fabric away from his chest, looking down at it a little bashfully. “I knit all of my sweaters,” he says. “They’re very warm, and it’s gratifying to get use out of all the time and effort.”

                “I like it,” Dean says. “Plus you’re able to pull it off.”

                “Would you like to ‘pull it off,’ Dean?” Cas asks, and Dean chokes on his sip. Cas flushes up to his hairline and says, quickly, “I meant, I mean, I was asking if you would like a sweater too. Not that you should take my sweater off—”

                “It’s okay, Cas.  I know what you meant,” Dean says, finally putting the poor man out of his misery. “You don’t have to give me a sweater; you’ve been more than generous already.”

                “They tend to take months. But I’d like to,” Cas says simply.

                “Well, I wouldn’t say no if you gave me one,” Dean says, and they both smile down at the table.

                Cas clears his throat after a moment and takes a sip of beer, throat working as he swallows it down with a pleased sound. Dean shifts in his seat. “Been a long time,” Cas marvels, drumming his fingers on his bottle. “Thanks for sharing this with me, Dean.”

                “It’s not a problem,” Dean says. “It’s nice to have a cool neighbor I can hang out with.”

                “Cool?” Cas echoes. “Are you talking about the time I eavesdropped on your conversations through my window, or when you found me lurking on your porch—?”

                Dean barks out a laugh. “Yeah, _cool_ ,” he repeats. “You’ve been awesome, and so great with Ben, and—hey, you know, when Ben’s here this weekend, I was thinking we could all—”

                Cas shakes his head, making the words die in Dean’s throat. The other man looks contrite. “I’m sorry, Dean, really, but this weekend isn’t good for me.”

                “Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.”

                “It’s the, uh,” Cas says, and puts down his bottle so that he can pinch the bridge of his nose. Dean watches as Cas closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s the anniversary.”

                “Oh,” Dean says again, this time a bit softer. His eyes lift past Cas, to the fridge covered in drawings, old grocery lists, and Cas turns in his seat to look too. Dean watches a muscle work in Cas’s cheek.

                “Three years,” Cas says softly. “Claire got homesick. It was her first sleepover, and my wife went to pick her up. Drunk driver pushed them over a guard rail.” He pauses, his shoulders hitching up and down before he got control of himself. “Not a day goes by without—my girls. My beautiful girls.”

                Dean reaches over the table and puts his hand tentatively over Cas’s. Cas’s hand trembles under his before flipping, palm-up, letting them slide their  fingers together. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

                “Me too,” Cas says. His eyes are watery behind his glasses. “This isn’t what you came over for.”

                “Don’t say that,” Dean says. “I came over to see you. This _is_ what I came over for.”

                Cas nods, not saying anything, and after a moment he squeezes Dean’s hand and lets go, reaching up to palm his eyes dry behind his glasses.

                “Let’s talk about something else,” he says. “Please. Anything else.”

                So Dean tells him about his job, about his brother, about going to live with Bobby and Ellen. He tells Cas about the first ever concert he went to—snuck into—and the time he and Sam drove the Impala over a bascule bridge as it was lifting, on a dare, and  the three months of drudgery in Bobby’s junkyard they were grounded to, as a result.

                And, on Saturday night, when Dean hears the doorbell ring as he’s getting Ben ready for bed—when he goes downstairs, and sees through the window that it’s Cas, looking pale and hunched and just so achingly, bone-deep sad—

                Dean takes Cas upstairs, and lets Cas dress Ben for bed in the soft, sweet-smelling onesie that his own daughter had once worn. Lets Cas sit against the wall in the half-dark and watch while Dean lulled Ben to sleep in the rocking chair, singing songs under his breath. Doesn’t say anything when Cas draws his knees up to his chest, puts his head in his hands, and his shoulders start shaking. Dean lets Cas be sad, lets him cry grateful tears for being included in this small, domestic moment— so tenderly familiar, so painfully missed.

                And Dean helps Cas to his feet afterwards, and leads him to the guest room, and pulls an afghan blanket from the spare closet for him to use. That’s when Dean tells him that he’s not alone, and lets Cas fall asleep in a house that holds the familiar comfort of two other people, breathing in unison.

**

                October sweeps in, all fire-bright colors and eddying, swirling leaves. Lisa takes Ben to the pumpkin patch. Sam takes Ben to the pumpkin patch with his fiancé, Sarah. Dean and Cas take Ben through a cornstalk maze and then, inevitably, to a pumpkin patch.

                “How many of these damn things does one five-month-old need,” Dean grouses.

                “A good gourd is hard to find,” Cas says, smiling over his scarf at Dean. He laughs when Dean rolls his eyes and goes back to tipping pumpkins over thoughtfully, checking for discolorations.

                Ben, who’s able to sit up as long as  he’s propped up by something, is leaned against a particularly fat pumpkin. Cas, who said booties took very little time, had knitted Ben little orange ones with a green button stem and leaves on each ankle. They’ve been a success—at least six people have stopped to congratulate him on such a cute baby—but Dean wants to make sure the greater Lawrence area is also aware of the cuteness of his child. That’s what Facebook is for.

                “Come on, Ben, give me some Blue Steel,” Dean says, crouching to angle his camera. “Come on, smile for Daddy, that’s right—” He turns his head, waving Cas over. “We’ve got Blue Steel over here! Come see it!”

                Cas, with a pumpkin under each arm, doesn’t come quickly enough. Ben’s face is pouty and slightly constipated by the time Cas reaches Dean’s shoulder.

                “I’m sure it was a great Blue Steel,” Cas says consolingly. “You can show me the pictures once we’re out of the glare.”

                They’ve been inseparable since that weekend in September, when Cas spent the night. Weeknights spent watching TV together, raking leaves. Jules gives Dean knowing, cheerful looks from across the street.

                Weekends, they run errands with Ben, they stay in and cook meals, they try to outdo each other with faces to make Ben laugh. There is only one small, inexplicable source of contention—that Cas leaves, invariably, an hour or so before Lisa is expected.

                Dean’s made enough hints that Cas doesn’t have to leave, that Lisa likes him and wouldn’t mind the chance to say hello. Cas just shrugs and begs off anyways. It’s frustrating, but not beyond explaining—Cas doesn’t feel like it’s his place. He knows that Lisa and Dean dated for two years, had a baby, and doesn’t want to get in the middle of them. So Dean can appreciate the attempt at tact, even though he doesn’t think it’s necessary.

                He’s already talked about it with Lisa. Well, sorta. So far, there’s not much to talk about, beyond that Dean spends almost all his free time with Cas, and Lisa knows it.

                “We both knew we’d be having this talk at some point,” Lisa had said. “We’re both going to meet new people and make sure that we’re okay with who’s around Ben. And you should know that I think Cas sounds like a great guy.”

                “Sounds?”

                “Yeah,” she’d reasoned. “It’s not like I’ve had the chance to get to him very well.”

                The whole thing just seemed delicate, poised on the edge of something, and Dean didn’t want to be the one to set the dynamite off. He wasn’t even sure what he and Cas were to each other, most days. Very close, that was inarguable. But they hadn’t done anything more than what was stretching the limits of friendship—standing too close, holding eye contact for too long, hands brushing each other and lingering. Sometimes Cas would stare at his lips with a considering, hopeful expression, or blush when Dean made a raunchy joke. Dean would have normally made a move by now but, knowing Cas’s history, he knew that Cas should be the one to judge when he was ready. Dean can go at Cas’s pace. Dean can be patient.

                People probably thought it was weird—Lisa’s parents, when and if they would find out, would have a word for it. _Unconventional_. It had already _been_ unconventional, him and Ben and Lisa, separate and together, and all the baggage that came with that. Dean didn’t especially care if people thought it was unconventional, either—it worked, didn’t it? Family didn’t have to be typical, or predictable, not as long as it worked.

                As it was, him and Cas and Ben and Lisa—all very unconventional. But not enough that Dean had any excuse to make Cas stay longer than he was comfortable with, to force him to bond with Lisa, a bizarre meet-the-parents. At the moment, Cas was a friend, one of Dean’s _best_ friends, but that didn’t require a good relationship with Lisa, not yet, at least.

                “Hey,” Cas says, on the walk back to the car. “I’ve been thinking—what are you doing for Halloween?”

                “Not much,” Dean says. “Neighborhood trick-or-treat is on Tuesday, right? I won’t have Ben.”

                Cas makes a humming noise.

                “I’ll probably stop by Lisa’s to see Ben all dressed up,” Dean says. “And then come back here to pass out candy. Why?”

                “I’ll be passing out candy on my front porch,” Cas says, shrugging. “You’re welcome to come join me.”

                Dean smiles, and bumps his shoulder, and curbs the impulse to say _it’s a date._

                So, on Tuesday, after work, Dean drives first to Lisa’s house, the both of them laughing and snapping pictures of Ben swamped in a triceratops costume, with large protruding horns and felt spikes going down his back.

                “Good choice, Lis,” he says. “Really ties into that small-but-deadly thing he’s been doing lately.”

                “Don’t even _mention_ diaper duty to me right now,” she says. “We had a stage five situation just before you got here.”

                “How many wipes did you have to use?”

`               Lisa barely suppressed a shudder. “Nine,” she whispers dramatically.

                After that, he stops at the store and manages to grab one of the last big bags of assorted candy from the Halloween aisle. Once home, he dumps the whole thing in a popcorn bowl and heads over to Cas’s porch.

                Cas is wearing another of his sweaters, this one black with a smiling white ghost taking up the chest. _BOO,_ in orange lettering, is coming out of the ghost’s mouth.

                “What a frightening costume,” Dean says, sitting down next to him. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

                “And where’s your costume?”

                “Dang, left it at ho—” Dean starts, and then there’s a hat being mashed unceremoniously over his head. He lifts it off and looks at it—a monkey, two knit ears sticking from the sides, with two red tassels coming down either side.

                “Didn’t think it was too much of a stretch,” Cas says, with twitching lips, and Dean grumbles and puts it back on his head.

                “How’s business been?”

                “Oh, fine,” Cas says. “Some truly creative costumes this year. The dreaded _cereal killer_. Groot. Some teenage boy dressed as Nicki Minaj’s _Anaconda_ cover art.”

                Dean nods, nosily sifting through the contents of Cas’s bowl.

                “Dude, you’re fucking loaded!” He says. “Full-size Hershey’s— _full-sized KitKats_? I didn’t realize I was living next to Bill Fucking Gates.”

                “The kids seem to like it,” Cas says happily. He scoots closer to Dean, pressing their thighs together. “Even if their parents don’t.” Dean grins and looks down, only to find himself afforded a proper look of the content of his own bowl.

                “This is why you invited me over,” Dean says, giving his own bowl a pathetic shake. “I look like a chump by comparison. I’m giving out Tootsie Pops, for crying out loud.”

                Cas stops to wish two twin Elsas a happy Halloween, complimenting their blue dresses. After they picked over Dean’s bowl, Cas turns back fixes Dean with an unexpectedly aggressive stare, arching an eyebrow up.

                “Are you seriously throwing a fit because _mine is bigger than yours?”_

_“_ Excuse me,” Dean says after a moment, in a faint voice, feeling his heart kick up. Was Cas really—?

                Cas extends his bowl to a troop of ninja turtles, barely looking up.

                “I’d say it’s less about the packaging, and more about what’s inside the wrapper,” he continues blithely.

                “Cas,” Dean breathes out. It would be an understatement to say he hadn’t been expecting Cas to up the ante, not anytime soon, not nearly so forward. He’s not complaining. It’s practically unhealthy, how attached, how attracted, he is, to this homebody writer with his early-morning jogs and his eccentric knitting obsession, sitting there in a shapeless sweater, eyes bright with challenge behind his glasses—

                “And then,” Cas says, his voice dropping lower, “I’d also add that it’s not the _size_ of the bar that matters, but—”

                Dean can’t help. He leans forward, over the bowl between his knees, and plants one on Cas.

                Cas inhales, almost in surprise, but doesn’t give Dean a chance to pull away and check. His hands fly up around Dean’s neck, tugging him forward, the prickle of teeth grazing against Dean’s lower lip. Dean, fisting his hands in Cas’s sweater, hauls him closer, pressing his nose into Cas’s cold cheek.

                “Come on,” Cas says suddenly, standing up. “Leave the candy here.”

                “You can’t expect people to have candy etiquette!” Dean says, affronted for Cas’s sake. “Someone is gonna dump your whole bowl into their stash—”

                “I don’t care,” Cas says, and then his hand is slipping around Dean’s wrist, tugging him forward, through the front door. Dean finds his back pressed against the wall as Cas fumbles with the lock one-handedly, looking inordinately pleased with himself when the bolt slides home.

                Hours, is what they have. Hours for Cas to sit warm and close in Dean’s lap, in the darkness of the front room, hearing the far-off hoots of children in the streets. Hours for Dean to learn the shape and texture of Cas’s mouth, the tiny, surprised moans he can pull from the back of his throat, the feel of Cas’s stubble brushing against his chin.

                Hours to slide his hands under the bulky sweater, to touch every inch, glide over every curve, reawakening nerves and hunger and need as Cas pants against his cheek, deliriously undone just by this, just by having someone close and warm and touching him so gently, with such care.

                And sometime in those hours the hunger burns down a little, to manageable levels, before they get too far ahead of themselves. Time for Dean to push Cas back into the couch cushions, and take off his glasses, and fold them on the arm—time for Dean to layer Cas’s eyelids with kisses, his hairline, his jaw; to watch Cas’s lips grow red, and bruised,  and learn the delicious curve of his smile.

**

                “ _Hey_ ,” Dean says to Lisa, shifting from foot to foot when she comes to drop Ben off on Friday.

                “What’s with the cat-got-the-canary grin?” She says, giving him a suspicious once-over.

                “Let’s just say I got a taste of the canary,” Dean says, and Lisa puts down Ben’s  car seat so she can wallop Dean in the arm.           

                “And just when did that happen, Dean?”

                “Tuesday,” Dean says, in a dreamy voice, and clears his throat. “Cas, uh, made his intentions known that day.”

                “I’m happy for you,” Lisa says. “I know this is something you really wanted.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Look, Lis, I don’t know where Cas and I are going to go from here, but I know both of us think it’s more than just some one-off thing.”

                “All right…”

                “So I know we talked about us all being involved, and informed, about dating people while Ben’s still a child. We’ve gotta make sure that no one else is coming before him. So this is me, telling you that Cas is going to be start being a constant in our lives, and hoping I can get your blessing.”

                Lisa leans against Dean’s counter, shaking her head. “You don’t need my _blessing_ , Dean. I’m not my dad.” She smiles and puts a hand over his. “I realize Cas has already been around a lot, but this _is_ different. I’d really like to see Cas, and know him, now that you guys are romantically involved.”

                Dean nods quickly. “Of course. I definitely agree.”

                “Good,” Lisa says, and squeezes his hand before letting go. “I’m going to go enjoy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s now.”

                “I never gave them my blessing!” Dean shouts after her.

                Once she’s pulled out of the drive, he sets to work unbuckling Ben, lifting the sleepy baby into his arms.

                “Missed you, buddy,” he croons against Ben’s flushed cheek, and hums as he walks Ben around the house, Ben’s head tucked against his shoulder.

                A few hours later, Ben’s in his bouncer, and there’s a brief knock on the door before Cas opens it and lets himself in.

                “Hey,” he says, still a little shyly, although his eyes are bright and happy when he looks at Dean from across the room. “Smells good in here.”

                “Looks even better,” Dean says, leaving the stove to go sidle up to him. “How have you been?”

                Cas reaches for Dean’s hand, easily slotting their fingers together. “I feel great,” he says. “I actually got some good writing done today. I shelved my new article for the time being and started working on a novel idea.”

                “That is great,” Dean agrees. He leans forward to kiss Cas, just as there’s a burble of laughter from across the room.

                They both turn to look at Ben, who stares back at them, blank-faced. Dean goes in for the kiss again, and then there’s another loud giggle.

                “I don’t know what’s so humorous about this,” Dean says, boxing Cas in against the wall, “But we might as well enjoy the audience.”

                He starts kissing up Cas’s neck, exaggerated smacking noises, while Ben shrieks with laughter and flails his fists around, rattling the noisemakers on his bouncer. Dean starts laughing against Cas’s skin, and then Cas is, too, and Dean has to press a quick kiss to Cas’s forehead, has to turn and press another fierce kiss against Ben’s hair, because he’s happy, and full-feeling, and feeling like he’s _home._

**

                November, a rising chill, and Cas has taken to knitting on Dean’s couch, pleasant company while Dean watches TV or tells Cas about his day or feeds Ben. Cas leaves yarn on Dean’s end table, needles in a drawer Ben can’t reach, and Dean likes the little reminders of him, settling in around his home, carving out their own space.

                Cas is undoubtedly good with Ben. It was one of the first things Lisa noticed, and admired, when the three adults went on a lunch date with the baby. Cas has experience, and knowledge, and a love for Ben—and that was enough, for now, a bridge that was at least based on the care and keeping of babies.

                “I like Lisa,” Cas had said, as he and Dean had left the restaurant they’d agreed to meet at. “She’s someone who’s somehow able to do it all.”

                Lisa definitely gives that impression, now and for the years Dean has known her. So it’s somewhat of a surprise when she shows up on a Sunday to pick up Ben, her eyes puffy, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

                “Lisa,” Dean says in surprise, and then she starts crying, shaking her head.

                “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m just tired, I—where’s Ben?”

                “Ben’s fine,” Dean says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

                This day had already been a little off-kilter—Cas had been home almost all day, working on something secretive, and he had promised to come over by the time Lisa was here, since they were trying to interact as much as they could. Ben had a small cold and hadn’t napped all day. That could wait.

                “I just,” Lisa says. “I’m really trying to keep it together, okay? But I feel like I have two full-time jobs now, and if I’m not working I have Ben, and when I don’t have Ben I feel guilty, and—and it’s awful but I think about how easy you have it, sometimes—I _know_ it isn’t fair—but you have Cas, who’s good and kind and skilled with kids, and I don’t have _anyone_.”

                “ Lis, that’s not true—”

                “It is, though!” She says, rubbing roughly at her cheeks. “It’s harder for me, because I’m a woman in her thirties with a kid, and no one wants to touch that with a ten foot pole. I should be happy and I go to bed crying, some nights, because I don’t think I’ll ever—I’ll ever—”

                Lisa starts crying again, and Dean reaches for her, pulling her tight into his arms and not letting up.

                “Don’t you dare let yourself think that’s true,” Dean says. “You’re fucking awesome, you’re a fucking catch, you are so many things, Lisa Braeden.”

                “But that’s not going to—”

                “Hey, _I_ love you, okay? And I always will. Me and Ben—we’re your family. And you’re not gonna end up alone, you’re gonna find a real hot stepdad for Ben sometime down the line, but for now—you’ve got me. You always have.”

                “Ugh,” Lisa says, letting herself relax in Dean’s arms. “Sometimes I wish it worked out between us. You are just a great person, all around. Where’d it go wrong?”

                “Nothing was _wrong_ ,” Dean says. “We just weren’t _it_ for each other. We weren’t as happy as we could have been.”

                “But we could have been happy,” Lisa says in a small voice. She shakes her head and pushes herself away from Dean. “Don’t listen to me. I’m—you know. Being a bitter, wishy-washy single person.”

                “Don’t beat yourself up about this,” Dean says. “If the positions were reversed, I’d feel the exact same way. Just remember it’s not always gonna be like this. You’re gonna find someone who really loves you, Lis. And it’s gonna be awesome when that happens, okay?”

                Lisa nods, although she still looks upset. Dean leans forward and gives her a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips. Lisa lets out a trembling sigh, grateful for the human contact, and they stay like that until Lisa lets out a satisfied hum.  She lets Dean kiss her forehead, just as softly, before he backs away.

                “I love you,” Dean says. “And I know you’re gonna be okay.”

                “Promise?”

                “I promise.”

                Lisa steps past him to retrieve Ben, and it’s only on her way out, when Dean’s holding the screen door open for her full hands, that they both see the mound of cloth heaped on the welcome mat.

                “Oh,” Lisa says, brought up short. “Is that Cas’s—?”

                Dean frowns, leaning down to pick it up. It’s heavy, supple, a dark green to bring out his eyes. He knows this is the sweater that Cas promised him, months ago in Cas’s kitchen, and he can tell that the wait is worth it, by the delicate cable-knit pattern, the painstaking details around the cuffs. Cas had put so much hard work into this than he ever did for anything his own.  It doesn’t make sense, for Cas to be acting like he did at the beginning, sneaking over with tiny gifts—anonymous, unseen, not wanting to see a reaction that was months in the making.

                “Yeah,” he says, straightening up and looking around, but Cas is long gone. He feels a sinking sensation in his stomach—the sweater definitely wasn’t on the porch when Lisa first got here.

                “Do you think,” Lisa says, and stops. “He might have seen something through the window that, you know. Could be misinterpreted.”

                Her expression is falling again, her eyes guilty, and Dean doesn’t want her to be  berating herself again. He gives her a bracing smile.

                “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, tucking the sweater underneath his arm. “I bet he was just in a hurry.”

                Lisa doesn’t look convinced, though, as she turns to leave—and Dean isn’t, either.

**

                Supposing that the crux of the matter was always that Cas, while not disliking Lisa, was a bit wary of her past with Dean, their intimate history, realizing that there was something layered and profound between Lisa and Dean that he could not even begin to understand; supposing that, while not feeling threatened, he saw how Lisa and Dean being on amicable terms with each other was, in some ways, worse than them despising each other; supposing that Cas, who had no one, could feel vaguely uneasy about the fact that there was always Lisa, the easy choice, the mother of Dean’s child, waiting in the wings—

                Supposing that Cas, having spent months on a gift that in no way could be construed as anything neighborly or intended for Ben, had approached Dean’s door and seen, through the window, the two of them, kissing, Lisa’s head tilted towards Dean’s as she clutched his shirt, haloed by a riot of pink, and realized with abrupt clarity that he  had been so woefully, inadequately out of his league this whole time, foolish enough to think old romances were really put to bed, for thinking his stupid, semantic gifts were anything more than lengths of yarn, kitschy artifacts, for thinking that small baby gloves and sweaters knitted with love would leave him anywhere but here, the porch where it began: unseen, unnecessary, left out in the cold—

                Supposing, then, that Cas had come to those conclusions, and had even lingered in the window for a moment, hoping that he was somehow wrong, and instead seen even worse— _even worse—_ the way Dean kissed her forehead afterwards, tenderly, the shape of his mouth when he told her he loved her, and suddenly known that this had just as much to do with passion as it did with genuine care, compassion, with a knowledge of each other that showed to Cas that he couldn’t even hold a torch to Lisa, couldn’t hold a candle to the deep, emotional history that the two lovers shared; what’s more, he was just standing there like an _ass_ , staring through the window, his stupid unasked-for sweater still clutched in his hands, because obviously even though he could see them, Lisa and Dean were not stopping, were still holding each other in full view of the window, whispering affectionately to each other, because _who cares_ that they were in full view of the window, this had been in the cards all along, and Cas had always known that it was too good to be true, hadn’t he?—

                Supposing, also, that Cas had been cut to the very core by the idea that _Dean_ , who had blazed like a fire into his life, who had promised him he’d never be alone again; who, along with Ben, had awoken in Cas all the love and yearning and life that he’d not felt, not since losing his family years before; who had kissed him with such aching kindness that night, on Cas’s couch: holding him, holding Cas, like he was unbearably precious—that Dean, despite all this, could so easily forget about him, the pathetic, neurotic widower next door, could do this without an ounce of guilt or consideration, so deeply had Dean—or, maybe, _Cas_ —misunderstood the nature of their relationship—

                Supposing that all of the above were true, it now makes sense why it’s been going on three days, and Cas has refused to say a word to Dean.

                Dean didn’t realize how significantly Cas had factored in his days, not until Cas had completely removed himself from them. He was almost there, perpetually in Dean’s kitchen, or his front room, or his back porch, perpetually with bedhead, needles in hand, Ben cradled in his arms, perpetually smiling at Dean. So after all of that, it was almost a shock to Dean’s system, not having Cas in his house, in arm’s reach, in his life.

                He had tried to call and text, but both went unanswered. Ditto to going over to Cas’s house, pounding on the doorway, entreating him through the paned glass. It was cold now, it’s not like Cas’s windows were open. If they were, Dean wouldn’t have had any qualms about climbing through one, just so he could corner Cas and set the record straight.

                Jules, heaping leaves into trashbags across the street, had given Dean a disappointed frown when he walked over.

                “I don’t know what  happened over there the other day, but Mister Novak hightailed it back home like he had a fire under his ass,” she had said. “Poor man looked heartbroken.”

                Well, Dean thinks to himself morosely, sitting alone on Thursday night, Cas isn’t the only one. It’s unfair to Dean, who didn’t do anything wrong, whose actions were grossly misunderstood, to just drop him cold and not give him a chance to explain. He’s been trying, and only met with silence, and how much longer should he be expected to act like he’s the villain here, begging for forgiveness? If Cas was going to act like _that,_ this unexpected freeze, shutting him out, maybe it was better to know sooner than later, before it progressed any further. Dean is committed to Ben, to raising his son with two loving and hands-on parents, and that required Dean and Lisa to be a committed team. If Cas couldn’t handle that, couldn’t handle Lisa being a permanent fixture in Dean’s life, that might as well be the death knell for their relationship.

                By Friday, Dean is pretty miserable. He’s glad when he’s able to leave work early to pick Ben up from daycare, buckling him into his car seat with ease.

                “Hey, little man,” Dean says, watching him in the mirror. “You excited to go to Daddy’s house, huh? You happy to see me?”

                Ben blows a raspberry and gives a bright gurgle.

                Dean enjoys the weekend, the quiet father-son time. Ben is strangely fascinated with games of peek-a-boo, and Dean plays endless games with him. He graduates on to toys, and household items—like the monkey hat Cas had given him on Halloween—making them peek out from behind corners and couch cushions, exaggerated, holding Ben’s attention. The baby’s gasping belly laugh is the greatest stress-reliever Dean’s had.

                It’s almost pleasant that Ben has such a short-term memory, doesn’t seem to notice that a presence is missing that would normally be there. Dean wishes that he could only be so lucky.

                It’s not nearly so pleasant when Lisa is much more perceptive than Ben.

                “Are you saying you haven’t talked to Cas since I was here last Sunday?” She says in a dangerous voice.

                “It’s not like I didn’t _try_ , okay?” Dean snaps. “It’s complicated.”

                “ _It’s complicated_ is an eighth grader’s relationship status on Facebook, Dean!” Lisa says. “Jesus, you two— _babies_!”

                Before Dean can stop her, she’s marching out the door, across the brittle grass, right up to Cas’s doorstep. Dean gapes fish-mouthed from the porch, not even noticing that Ben is slobbering all over his ear. He hears Lisa give a couple loud, impatient knocks on Cas’s door, Lisa’s exasperated sigh, and then the unintelligible rumble of Cas’s reply from inside.

                He peers closer, but all that happens is the door unlocking, opening, and Lisa stepping in. He doesn’t see Cas.

                Supposing that Lisa had stepped inside Cas’s dark house, and momentarily softened, looking around, seeing Cas with his tired eyes and unshaven face and the pictures of his family, lining the mantel; supposing she saw how he didn’t seem angry with her, or resentful, but mostly resigned, like  he had expected this to end unhappily all along; supposing that lack of a fight in Cas pissed her off, that she surged forward and poked her finger in his chest, hard, and told him he’d been really thick, not giving Dean a chance to explain, or defend himself, instead retreating back to his house in the hope of acting like nothing ever happened—

                Supposing that Lisa told him, straight up, that she would always love Dean, and Dean would always love her, just the same way that Cas would always love his wife, but that didn’t mean that he and Dean couldn’t love each other in a _different_ way, in a healthy way; supposing that she told him that a kiss had been a sorely-needed gesture of closeness, that an _I love you_ was a message that she needed to hear from her closest, oldest friend; suppose Lisa told him that she been lonely, and tired, and right then had wanted nothing so much as the love that Dean and Cas had for each other, which is why she’s practically _enraged_ to find that the two of them aren’t communicating, aren’t trusting each other, too caught up in their own insecurities to know just how good it could all be, the two of them, Dean and Cas.

                Supposing that’s the conversation that happened in Cas’s front room, it would make sense when the door suddenly flew open ten minutes later, and Cas, determinedly holding Dean’s eye from across the lawn, had advanced barefoot across the grass, meeting him at the bottom porch step in a sudden mash of earnest apologies, nimble fingers, pulling each other closer.

                “Dean,” he says. “You have to know that you’re not—you and Ben, you’re not secondhand replacements of Amelia and Claire for me. That would be unfair, on so many levels, to all of you—”

                “And you’re not some Lisa rebound,” Dean says quickly. “I’m sorry that you even thought that for a second. You’re _it_ for me, Cas.”

                Cas folds Dean’s hand tightly over his heart. He says, “You make this feel like it’s working again.”

                Ben makes a complaining noise between them, seeing as he’s been being squashed between their two chests, and Cas breathes out a laugh, stooping to drop a kiss on Ben’s forehead.

                Dean hears the sound of Lisa’s steps, coming up the sidewalk, and he draws away a little to throw his free arm around her, pulling her into the mix.

                “How many times have you saved my bacon—”

                “That’s what family’s for,” Lisa says, smiling as she leans into him, and Dean is suddenly struck by it again—feeling happy, and full, and like  he’s _home_.

**

**Four Years Later**

                All it took was some innocuous comment Cas had made, complaining about still being cold.

Dean is beneath the covers, fingers ghosting over Cas’s skin as he rucks Cas’s thick sweater up around his ribs.

                “Dean,” he hears Cas breathe out, and then, when he’s taking Cas into his mouth—“ _D-ean_.”

He like the warm, close confines beneath the covers, Cas’s legs twitching restlessly on either side of him. He likes the thickness of Cas, the weight of him, the way Cas has pulled his sweater down over his fingertips and has curled his fingers, in turn, over Dean’s ears, gently guiding his bobbing head. He can’t see Cas’s face, although he knows by now what Cas probably looks like—the flush in his cheeks, the concentrated crumple to his forehead. He can’t hear Cas’s soft sighs of pleasure, either, with Cas’s sweater pressed tight over his ears, muting out almost everything.

                Dean massages the soft skin on the insides of Cas’s thighs, thumbs gently pressing into tightly strung muscle—that’s when Cas tenses, hips rocking up, and Dean lets Cas finish in his mouth, keeping up a steady, snug pressure all around him until Cas sags down into the mattress. Fingers unclench from around his ears, petting his head clumsily.

                He feels a fresh, cooling breath of air as Cas flips the covers back, exposing Dean still kneeling between his legs.

                “Very nice,” Cas says, a little breathlessly, when Dean makes a smug gesture over Cas’s now-spent dick— _tada._

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “I already know I’m awesome.”

                Cas shakes his head, smiling, as Dean carefully pulls his boxers back up and tucks him inside, smoothes his sweater over his stomach.

                He crawls over Cas and back to his pillow, tucking himself tight into Cas’s side as he does. “Still feeling a chill, angel?”

                Cas turns over, facing him. Sometimes, like now, Dean still can’t believe that those kind, unimaginably tender eyes are all for _him._ Can’t believe he’s the recipient of something so precious, so protected. He tends to keep his comparisons about Cas’s eyes and the Hope Diamond to himself, but goddamn it—his heart still catches in his chest sometimes, seeing that warm look Cas gives him. Treasured beyond words.

                “I feel just right,” Cas rumbles, and then he’s kissing Dean, both their heads sunk sideways on their pillow—he’s pressed up against Dean in all the right places, and his hand is dipping into Dean’s boxers, curling into a tight fist around him; he’s kissing Dean, warm and a little sloppy, right until when Dean stutters up into the squeeze of his fingers and chokes out a moan.

                They kiss for some lazy, timeless stretch, half-falling asleep, Cas’s breath warm against his chin. Somewhere in the house, the furnace grumbles itself on. Dean’s in a state of pleasant drowsing when he hears the soft tread of feet, the sound of the door brushing open over the carpet.

                “Daddy,” he hears Ben say, voice wavering. “I had a bad dream.”

                Dean turns over, yawning, as he pushes the covers down. “It’s all right, Ben,” he murmurs. “Come up here.”

                Ben doesn’t argue. He clambers up from the foot of the bed, crawling over Cas’s sleeping form until he finds the perfect spot, nestled between the two men.    

                “There was a girl with a snake tongue, and sharp teeth, and—”

                “Hey,” Dean says. He rubs Ben’s compact, warm back beneath his Batman nightshirt. “Just a nightmare, okay? You’re okay.”

                Ben sighs and nods. As Dean watches he wriggles his head back into the pillow, fisting one hand in Cas’s sweater, the other hand reaching unerringly in the dark for Dean. Ben wraps one small, pudgy fist around Dean’s littlest finger. Within moments, he’s asleep, content.

                Cas snorts himself awake a little later. He looks down at Ben, his loose grip on Cas’s chest, and gently brushes his hand over Ben’s sweaty hair. He looks over at Dean.

                “Everything okay?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says, looking over his son’s head in the near-dark, seeing Cas tousled head next to Ben’s on the pillow, feeling the sleepy-warm graze of his calf against Dean’s beneath the covers. Seeing, even in the dark of the room, the invisible threads, the careful handiwork, somehow all woven together to make _this_ — unconventional, surely; a little eccentric. But still family in all the ways that count.   “Everything’s great.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, everyone!  
> Hope I haven't gotten too rusty.  
> There's more on the way, including a steampunkish homeless!cas oneshot, and a multichap fic, and another chapter of all roads home...  
> I've only brought this upon myself.
> 
> Thanks to all! 
> 
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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